


Drabbles

by Siera_Writes



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Smut, ace!trott, kinda voyeurism?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:19:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically just a collection of 'drabbles' I've written for prompts on my tumblr. I'm keeping them organised here, and I'll update it when I have more written. I say they're drabbles, but they verge from 300 to <strike>700</strike> 1000 words. Most of them are SFW, but if otherwise, it'll be indicated in the chapter description.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smornby

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

Smith lumbers from the bathroom, bare feet smearing across their forlorn carpet. He bats at his mouth to half-smother a yawn, and the other clutches at the towel wrapped precariously around his hips. The air of their apartment wafts cool over his chest, just on the edge of discomfort.

It’s eerily quiet, and for a moment, Smith scrabbles at snippets of thoughts for the reason for this. Ah, it’s Saturday, early afternoon. Trott’s no doubt left with gooey eyes for his flame-haired girlfriend’s place, and Ross had been talking about some official thing, which required him dressing sharp.  
Fuck, Ross looks good in a suit. Smith smiles sleepily, then pauses halfway down the hallway. The door to Ross’ room is to his right, ajar. He won’t be back for another hour or so…

He guiltily pushes the door open, crosses to the neatly made bed. It’s the opposite of his. It’s not like Smith can’t make a bed - more like he doesn’t see the point. But it’ll be part of the fun, to avoid being caught. Ross isn’t exactly the most observant of people, anyway.

Probably why Smith’s still pining over him, while Trott looks on in exasperation.

He eases himself onto the pristine quilt, prostrate, face smushed into the pillow. He can smell Ross’ aftershave. Clean, subtle. He likes it for being understated. Smith closes his eyes, feeling warm and on the point of sleep.

He’s not stupid though, it’s not like he’ll let himself fall asleep on -

—

“Um.”

Smith’s eyes unseal, heavy, while his heart thuds in his chest. Shit.

He flicks his vision to the doorway, and is met by the sight of Ross with his collar open and tie draped either side of his neck, jacket draped across his back from where it’s hooked by the fingers of his right hand at his shoulder like a prick.

A fucking good-looking prick.

Ross’ eyes are carefully avoiding him, cheeks flushed. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”


	2. Tross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I’m pregnant.” 
> 
> (No Mpreg, never Mpreg)

“Trott?” Ross watches, concerned, as the other man blearily sits with his head between his knees on the floor. The sun streams though in rigid lines from between the slats of the blinds, but he light does nothing for the brunet’s complexion - he looks fucking miserable, shadows dark beneath his eyes, cheeks hollow, hair falling just a little too long, flat.

Ross shuffles up, squats next to him with a soothing hand on the man’s back, and moves to sit cross-legged with his knees pressed to Trott’s knee and hip, worry for his partner’s wellbeing outweighing the desire to not catch whatever he’s got.

This close, he can see the faint dotting of sweat on the man’s brow, and his body trembles ever so slightly. Ross starts rubbing his hand vigorously across Trott’s spine, trying to warm him with friction, but he stops at a pathetic groan of displeasure.

Ross feels an irrational surge of guilt, and allows his palm to drag slowly along the curve of his lower back to drop to the floor instead. He leans in, close to Trott’s ear, just in case his ears are more sensitive, or he’s dehydrated and has a headache, he modulates his voice to a whisper. “Mate?”

He gets a low, strained hum, and the brunet awkwardly bumps his shoulder against Ross’ chest in affection. “What’s wrong?”

“’M sick.” He can see that.

“You know why?”

The brunet rolls his head where it’s pressed against his knee, hair fricative as it rubs against his jeans, the single eye Ross can see staring him down.

“I’m pregnant.”

Ross splutters for a second, trying to regain composure, think of what to say. The brunet holds his gaze, and Ross can see pained amusement pulling at the corner of Trott’s eye.

And then he turns away, voice low, both characteristically deadpan and fond at the same time. “Oh my god, you fucking idiot.”


	3. Tross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

Their room in the office is quiet, holds the strange peace that comes with being in a quiet room with nothing happening outside. It’s late… early, really, if you were to be pedantic, and Ross’ eyes are at the point of gritty burning. He’s blinking frequently, eyes occasionally shuttering closed before he gets a grip on himself. They’re going to have to leave soon, lock up, grab a few hours sleep, unless they just resort to the sofa.

At the rate they’re going, that’s probably going to be what they do. Ross can suffer through a barrage of Smith’s innuendos.

From the booth to his right, he hears soft mouse clicks, the occasional clack of keys - strangely soothing in a hypnotic thrum, - and every so often it’s punctuated with a quietly huffed sigh.

These two projects will be the death of them.

There’s a curse from Trott’s booth, sharper than if it were just about the editing. Ross leans back, thankful to have something other than a screen to focus on. His vision was starting to swim, colours fading into one another.

Trott’s slumped in his seat, and really, really, he needs to improve his posture. His head’s bowed, left elbow braced against the desk as his hand works the side of his neck at the juncture of his shoulder, a grimace on his face. From here, Ross can see the lines of slight musculature through the man’s polo-shirt, the curve of his spine. He finds his tired mind appreciating it, his usual willed self-reticence crumbling.

God, now is not a good time for his crush to come through. For one, the man’s in pain. Two, they’re alone and it’s weird and what happens if they end up staying too late to leave the office and the sofa’s most feasible? Does he act chivalrous, give up the sofa (Trott would fucking hate that too) or do they share it (and Ross will agonise over it; what if he does something, say something, asleep, with inhibitions lowered, and what will the other man think of the offer, will he think it’s weird?) and shit, he doesn’t know what to do.

“Fuck.” Trott hisses it, vehemence surprising, and lunges backwards in his chair, on the verge of being precariously balanced, and with his head tipped back, neck bared. Jaw sharp and shadowed by a glorious combination of stubble and bone structure. Oh dear. Ross cringes at himself, physically turning away back to his project. He should save it. It’s going no further, he can tell.

He turns to Trott, tries to keep his tone as casual as he can. “Mate, you alright?”

“Pulled something in my neck.” Ross had thought as much. But he looks so bothered by it, and it twinges at Ross’ already stretched-thin resolve.

So before he can even think it through, recognise the words and forcibly close his mouth, they leak out. “Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?”

Shit.


	4. Smornby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Kiss Me."

“Ross!”

Ross jerks his head up, startled from his intent focus on the screen in front of him. It’s Smith? The man sounds worked up about something, and usually that leads to questionable things. Ross pokes his head past the blue wall of his booth, curious at the somewhat overzealous edge to the man’s voice.

Smith’s posed in the doorway to their recording room, legs apart, knees bent slightly, hands upturned and held before and to the sides of him. He’s grinning wide, and there’s a mischievous glint in his light eyes. He gestures at Ross with jerky motions to approach him, and the dark haired man has to question why he does so immediately.

It’s going to end badly, is guaranteed to, and Ross doesn’t want to be directly involved in the consequences. But he’s going to, because he can never say no to that voice, that smile. It’s a curse he both bears with a leaden heart, and revels in.

He reaches Smith, moves his hand to itch the back of his head to seem idle, careless. As though his whole being isn’t focused on the minutiae of the taller man’s body language. He feels his cheeks flush as he overthinks his attempts to act casual, and whatever he’s doing must seem so wooden, oh god, he must see straight through it-

Smith’s suddenly right in front of him. “Mate.”

Ross tries to recoil, can’t. Smith’s hands are splayed across his deltoids and curled around to his triceps, and this along with his summer-bright eyes has him pinned.

“Kiss me.”

If Ross was still before, then he’s frozen now. His heart beats a tad too late, then resumes, too strong, and Smith must feel it though his arms, see it at his pulse below his neck.

“Oh, come on, Trott’ll be back any minute. His face’ll be gold!”

At this point, Ross feels a pain in his chest, a pang, and of course, Smith doesn’t want him. It’s just a game, that’s all. That’s all it ever would be, with Smith.

“No.” Ross can’t believe his voice doesn’t waver. Smith’s expression drops.

“Why not. Can you imagine-.”

He makes his voice as sharp and cold as he can, glacial. “Because it’s disrespectful.” And he turns without looking back, no doubt missing a very good impression of a kicked dog. When he’s behind his booth, he bows his head and breaths out with as much control as he can, hands trembling slightly. If Smith comes around the booth to him, feelings be damned, Ross might actually sock him in the jaw.

Instead, there’s silence, a few heartbeats of peace, and Ross wonders whether he prefers this. The possibility of a kiss might be too painful to consider now, but should he have, even if it would have been like adding razor wire to the trap around his heart?

His musings are interrupted by a quiet voice. “A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything…” He’s never heard Smith like this. So… defeated? He doesn’t know if he was meant to hear that. And… Trott hasn’t returned yet.

Ross’ stomach clenches. What has he done?

Ross jerks his head up, startled from his intent focus on the screen in front of him. It’s Smith? The man sounds worked up about something, and usually that leads to questionable things. Ross pokes his head past the blue wall of his booth, curious at the somewhat overzealous edge to the man’s voice.

Smith’s posed in the doorway to their recording room, legs apart, knees bent slightly, hands upturned and held before and to the sides of him. He’s grinning wide, and there’s a mischievous glint in his light eyes. He gestures at Ross with jerky motions to approach him, and the dark haired man has to question why he does so immediately.

It’s going to end badly, is guaranteed to, and Ross doesn’t want to be directly involved in the consequences. But he’s going to, because he can never say no to that voice, that smile. It’s a curse he both bears with a leaden heart, and revels in.

He reaches Smith, moves his hand to itch the back of his head to seem idle, careless. As though his whole being isn’t focused on the minutiae of the taller man’s body language. He feels his cheeks flush as he overthinks his attempts to act casual, and whatever he’s doing must seem so wooden, oh god, he must see straight through it-

Smith’s suddenly right in front of him. “Mate.”

Ross tries to recoil, can’t. Smith’s hands are splayed across his deltoids and curled around to his triceps, and this along with his summer-bright eyes has him pinned.

“Kiss me.”

If Ross was still before, then he’s frozen now. His heart beats a tad too late, then resumes, too strong, and Smith must feel it though his arms, see it at his pulse below his neck.

“Oh, come on, Trott’ll be back any minute. His face’ll be gold!”

At this point, Ross feels a pain in his chest, a pang, and of course, Smith doesn’t want him. It’s just a game, that’s all. That’s all it ever would be, with Smith.

“No.” Ross can’t believe his voice doesn’t waver. Smith’s expression drops.

“Why not. Can you imagine-.”

He makes his voice as sharp and cold as he can, glacial. “Because it’s disrespectful.” And he turns without looking back, no doubt missing a very good impression of a kicked dog. When he’s behind his booth, he bows his head and breaths out with as much control as he can, hands trembling slightly. If Smith comes around the booth to him, feelings be damned, Ross might actually sock him in the jaw.

Instead, there’s silence, a few heartbeats of peace, and Ross wonders whether he prefers this. The possibility of a kiss might be too painful to consider now, but should he have, even if it would have been like adding razor wire to the trap around his heart?

His musings are interrupted by a quiet voice. “A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything…” He’s never heard Smith like this. So… defeated? He doesn’t know if he was meant to hear that. And… Trott hasn’t returned yet.

Ross’ stomach clenches. What has he done?


	5. Hatsome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Hey, have you seen the..? Oh.”
> 
> This one's NSFW

“Hey, have you seen the-? Oh.”

Ross’ legs seize, refuse to carry him any further, or away, like he should. The image before him is burning into his mind, and his cheeks heat while shame wells within him. He can’t look away though. It’s too pretty a picture, a lurid tableaux he’s never really wanted to admit desiring.

His friends are a pale tangle of sweat-slick limbs on the bed. His bed. He should feel outrage, or discomfort, or some raw intimidation. It’s brash and in his face, an invasion of his personal space.

But they’re inviting him to it. They’re on display like some grecian master’s work, just for him. He can feel in the air that they know he’s there. They don’t shift their attention though. Just keep their tandem motion.

They’re in the centre of his bed - deliberate, so deliberate - and both naked. Smith’s plastered against Trott’s back, curled around him while the other man rides him with quick shifts of his hips, practically sat on his heels for leverage as he grinds down. Trott’s back is arched and his head’s thrown back against Smith’s shoulder at the intensity of feeling. The brunet’s right arm reaches up and around the taller man’s neck, hand planted on the broad plane of his shoulder for stability, and Ross can see muscles twitch and shift under their skin.

Smith is following blindly, rendered mindless with sensation; his sole focus is on the feel of him and Trott together, and his breathing’s harsh, eyes glassy, lips pressed to the slant of the brunet’s trapezius. His arms are wound around the brunet’s chest and waist, holding them close.

Ross feels himself being affected, feels guilt, self-disgust roil in his mind. Why are they here? Are they just fucking with him? Did one of them work out his innermost secrets, and just laugh?

He would continue his internal tirade, but there’s a low, shuddering gasp, and Ross looks up in time to see Smith almost collapse in on the brunet, loose-limbed in release. Trott holds the taller man upright, carefully pulls off, paying little attention to his own arousal, and helping the taller man to lie back on the bed in a careful sprawl. The brunet’s smile is fond, and he murmurs to Smith as he climbs from the bed, wincing slightly.

When he’s facing Ross, he stands loosely, not overly confident, but not shy either. His eyes are dark as he beckons for Ross to approach.

Should he? The answer is almost certainly no. They will regret this, he will ruin everything. If he is to do this, he will somehow find a way to systematically dismantle their entire relationship.

And yet Trott’s still stood there, expression a careful neutral, undemanding. His schooled features are a contrast to Smith’s who has just barely managed to prop himself up on an elbow and is looking on with not a little concern, anxiety. But not for the inclusion of Ross in a suggested tryst, but for the fact that he’s realising they’ve seriously overstepped Ross’ boundaries. Smith thinks they’ve fucked everything up.

It’s so tempting though - it’s what he wants most of all. Ross is sure Trott can read him, can see the veneer of his resolve chipping from the already cracked exterior. Can hear it cascading in dull clinks to a metaphorical floor. Trott’s played him and read him and he knows Ross far too well.

He lifts his hand in a lazy gesture a second time, still inscrutable. “C'mere, sunshine.”

Ross shivers. And he walks.


	6. Tross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

Ross arrives home in a flurry of stressed motion, hoodie drenched, jeans sodden, his body wracked with shivers. He feels miserable, his hair plastered to his face with a scum of gel. Smith’s away for the weekend, seeing family and driving land rovers, so the apartment seems quiet.

Trott’s quiet. His presence is peaceful, undemanding. His lips quirk a fond smile even as he wrestles to get his cold-numbed digits to comply with his commands, trying to wrench off his trainers without attempting the more dextrous task of untying his laces. His cold skin burns where the flesh scrapes against the material of his shoes.

Balancing is difficult, cold. He yelps as he nearly falls, soles slippery, and manages to slam both hands to the wall in an ungainly movement, while his neglected foot drops to the floor painfully in an unconscious reflex, his body trying to steady him, even though it’s too cold to do so properly.

There’s the soft thump of socked feet on carpeted stairs, and he sees Trott come towards him, concern apparent in his expression. He takes Ross’ state in with a single sweep of his eyes, and seems torn on what to do. Ross stands uselessly, feels as though getting even more sodden, the cold seeping into his muscles. He clenches his jaw to stop his teeth clicking.

Trott’s eyes seem sad. He makes a decision though, bounds up the stairs two at a time, ostensibly to recover a towel, maybe some clothes for Ross. He casts instructions down to Ross from over his shoulder. “Take off what you’re wearing, if you can, leave it near the washing machine. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Ross flushes in embarrassment, before realising he won’t be entirely naked, and this isn’t anything like that, it’s just caring for each other. He’d do the same for Trott, he’s sure.

He stumbles with unwilling legs the short distance to leave his discarded clothes. They’re heavy, slop to the laminate floor with dull claps. He keeps shaking, skin bared to the air and vulnerable. His underwear’s damp too, only slightly protected by the thick denim of his jeans. He feels utterly miserable, arms clasped across his chest in an effort to retain some warmth.

He hears water splashing. The bath. Ah, that’s what Trott’s doing. And then there’s the thud of quick feet and the brunet is practically cantering down the stairs in his haste to get to Ross, towel unfurled mid-transit.

Trott slows approaching Ross, seems hesitant to draw closer. There’s a wariness in his dark eyes, but a softness too. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen it. Doesn’t think Trott means to show it. The towel is draped across his shoulders, almost reverently, Ross ducks down slightly to help the man accomplish this. He ends up with his face closer to Trott’s than he intended, admires the man’s lashes, his lips, while frozen through cold. The brunet’s too busy attending to him, though, drawing the towel around him with infinite care, splaying a broad palm across his back and rubbing.

The warmth is wonderful. He sighs, and Trott turns to him quick, their faces too near. Ross can’t… He can’t deal with this much longer, this dancing about. He feels a frisson when he thinks of the man, when they look at each other. And he hopes Trott feels the same, or whatever the brunet’s equivalent might be. Not everyone’s the same. He has to remember this.

Trott seems lost, lips parted, just slightly. His hand hovers in the air beside Ross’ neck, a palpable warmth. He’s too cold to move, just watches. He feels heat almost like a brand to his shoulder - Trott’s left hand planting heavily there, thumb flicking back and forth over the ridge of his trapezius, and Ross can’t look away from those eyes.

The brunet’s gaze flicks down, worried, self-confidence smashed. He looks small and scared, but he looks back up with a determination Ross admires. And then the brunet speaks, voice stuttering as he sums up the courage. “Ross. I think I’m in love with you,” and he cuts off, laughs quiet and flat, “And I’m terrified.”


	7. Smornby, Hatsome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: fast food au, any pairing
> 
> Includes ace!trott because I sorta love this headcannon too. <3

It's quiet now, a lull in customers brought by the late hour and the foul weather which is beginning its descent. It's bright inside the store, but the floor to ceiling windows permit an unsettling vista - it's almost though the world outside has dropped away to be replaced by blackness. Trott tries to ignore it, instead focussing on little details around him, on watching the minutiae of the two people sat alone on separate sides of the room. Body language can be fascinating, and after this long, he's become somewhat adept at reading idle gestures and mannerisms.

This is his entertainment in his long evening shifts. Watching people, and attempting avoiding them noticing it. Having been on his feet for the last couple hours, Trott's getting bored, restless, tired. Just wants to get home and fall straight into bed, so he can at least get a few hours sleep before tomorrow's lecture. Juggling a full-time course and some form of employment is a chore, but if he wants a job when he's done with uni, it's what he's got to do.

The relative peace is fractured - not wholly broken, just made into a lurking entity at the back of Trott's mind in the way things sometimes do - as two figures in somewhat ill-advised garb for the weather spill in through the set of doors. The wind must have gotten a tad stronger; it slinks into the threshold in an icy whisper, a mere suggestion of what forecasts are warning about for the coming week. Trott shivers in his thin uniform as the dusting of sweat from the strong lighting and oppressive heat of the deep fat fryers is caught by the chill breath of moving air.

Ugh. He feels so horrible. Maybe a shower, and then bed. He's not getting very much sleep tonight, it seems.

The two man clatter towards him over the scuffed line of carpeting with too much height and over-long limbs. Their's is a puppyish, somewhat cute boisterousness. Their rapport, their friendship, is obvious from the glints of their eyes and teeth, the closeness of their figures, the physicality utilised in the sharing of whatever joke, whatever story, is causing the slightly shorter man's eyes to glitter with tears of mirth. Their speech is muted, peaking every so often with hitched laughter, and they just about sober up when they reach the till.

They both turn to face him fully, and Trott guesses you could say they're attractive - certainly, their hair and eyes are rather pleasing shades, their faces well-proportioned, nicely shaped. Trott's always seen faces as being like art. Interesting and nice to look at, but nothing more, at least not for him. Their's have just enough robustness to be called handsome. Trott's only ever been called pretty. He doesn't mind, to be honest.

The auburn haired man in front of him rattles off an absurdly long order, and Trott lets a corner of his mouth pull up to show his teeth, a slight smirk of disbelief. The food's not solely for him, it's apparent to Trott from the guy's mannerisms it's for the pair of them, so he's not really taken aback by the size of the order as such; it's more the way it rolls off the guy's tongue, an obvious sign they've ordered this too many times before.

The auburn haired man grins when his order comes to an end in a display Trott would describe as flirtatious, if he really cared about that type of thing, and Trott just clicks his tongue, huffing a small laugh through his nose, calculating the cost. As he looks up to give them the price, he sees a smattering of rose on the dark haired man's cheeks, the way he's casting his gaze about with just too much curiosity. Embarrassed, no doubt. Probably Trott laughing, or at least smiling, about the order is what's caused it. He thinks he's being judged. He's really not - Trott couldn't care less.

The auburn haired man is leaning back and looking over his shoulder, just slightly, to where the other man is hovering. They're not slap-bang next to each other - no, it's a more comfortable formation, the more confident of their pair taking the lead, and it warms Trott's heart to see such consideration. It shows promise, that his generation is beginning to take into account feelings, abilities. 

Trott smoothly conveys the price, and he steels his mind as the two men look quickly back to him. He knows it's his voice - people don't expect the whisky-timbre from someone as slim, as seemingly diminutive, as him. He's seen the look that the taller man flashes him before, and Trott smiles a rictus smile. The darker haired man seems to have flushed deeper, but he's also glaring slightly at his partner, and oh right, they're partners in every sense of the word, and the dark haired man is warning the other guy not to flirt.

He accepts the beaten, ink stained, notes, neatly flattens them into the designated sections of the register tray, and scrabbles with bitten-nailed fingers for the few copper coins they require in change. It really was a big order.

They linger awkwardly as their food is gathered, and Trott proffers the tray with as meaning heavy a look as he can give. Just because he's not interested in that way doesn't mean he doesn't know how to reciprocate. So he gives them as full-lipped a half-smirk as he can, with heavy-lidded eyes. It helps he's tired. His smile grows as they quickly take the tray and skitter away to a table behind one of the faux-artsy walls.


	8. Troffy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: troffy
> 
> There is a little bit of a dearth in troffy fics on tumblr and it makes both me and the anon who requested it on tumblr quite sad. Therefore I give you a short and sweet bit of platonic troffy fluff.

Smith cherishes mornings like this, mornings where he emerges from his slumber before Trott. They seem to gravitate towards one another in the night, and the brunet, usually restrained in any display of affection, becomes effusive with it in his unconscious state.

It was a warm the evening previous - Smith loves the summer where the mornings are bright, the days long and humid, and the evenings longer still until the stars speckle the night - and they have a fan on in the corner, lie on top of the sheets of their bed. Trott is sprawled in a charmingly lazy way, cheek resting on Smith's stomach, light breaths a ticklish flutter against the skin, and his left arm looped loosely around his waist, while the other follows the line of the brunet's own body, knuckles of his curled digits pointing to the foot of the bed. One of Trott's legs is slung over both of Smith's.

It's easy for Smith to forget that Trott's not actually that short - that actually he's not short at all - until the rare days where he wakes before the other man. Usually, he gets up an hour or so after the brunet, a cup of tea left on the bedside table, in the off chance he's up in time to drink it. But on lazy summer mornings, he gets to appreciate his friend.

Sure, even with both of them stripped down to their underwear, Smith's still on the verge of overheating - Trott can act like a particularly clingy cat crossed with a space-heater when he's like this - but just being this close is nice. Reassuring, comfortable. He likes moments like this, when they're in a platonic embrace, undemanding.

He just lets the minutes drift while he feels the occasional eddy of moving air from the whirring fan, noting with fondness the every feature of Trott. His hair with its dual tone in the clear morning light, the length of his lashes against the stark paleness of his skin. The light lines of musculature beneath his skin where his limbs or back are stretched as he's draped over Smith. The elegance of his body, his hands, and the shape of his lips.

Smith loves mornings like this because he loves Trott. He lifts a hand with sleepy clumsiness and brings it to sweep back the shorter man's fringe, smile fond. The brunet nuzzles closer, and Smith's not quite sure whether it's a conscious reaction or not. God, he loves the man so much. Instead of moving any further, he just lies back, appreciating their shared contact, so glad to have this intimacy between them.


End file.
